Page 51 of Santa Daddy
An hour later, that’s when I walked back into the kitchen and thought I’d lost my mind.
The smell hit me first.
Sugar. Vanilla. Melted chocolate. Butter.
Then I saw her.
Bent over the oven, pulling out a tray of cookies. Not just any cookies—Christmas cookies. Little trees and stars and lopsided snowmen, some already cooling on racks, inexpertly iced with green and white frosting and too many sprinkles.
She wore nothing but black lace underwear and an apron with “Kiss the Cook” written across it in red script, a cartoon mistletoe over the K.
There was soft Christmas music playing from the speakers overhead. Some mournful jazz version of “Have Yourself a MerryLittle Christmas,” the singer crooning about hearts being light while mine tried to punch out of my chest.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice coming out lower than intended.
“Stress baking,” she said, still focused on not dropping the tray. “Christmas stress baking. It’s a thing.”
It was a tactical assault.
She set the tray down, then straightened to face me.
The lace covered almost nothing important. The apron strings dug into the small of her back, and the bow sat there like a challenge.
“You’re half naked,” I observed.
“I’m wearing an apron.” She arched a brow. “Very domestic. Very wifely. Isn’t that what you’re going for on your Christmas card from hell?”
I stepped closer.
The scent of cookies was almost thick enough to taste. Sugar and spice and the underlying heat of her skin. The oven hummed softly behind her. The tree’s white lights reflected in the stainless-steel appliances, bouncing off the edge of the cooling racks.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Dani?” I asked.
“I’m trying to frost snowmen.” Her tone was innocent. Her eyes weren’t. “Unless you’d prefer something else.”
Dangerous little elf.
I closed the gap between us, backing her gently until her ass bumped the island. The music swelled, strings sliding into another verse. Somewhere, sleigh bells were being shaken for ambiance.
“You have frosting,” I said, nodding at the smear of white on her index finger.
“Hazard of the job.”
I caught her wrist.
Brought her hand to my mouth.
Never took my eyes off hers as I slid her finger between my lips and sucked.
Sweet buttercream exploded on my tongue. Underneath: salt and skin. Her pulse stuttered under my grip.
I dragged my tongue along the pad of her finger when I released it, slow enough to make sure she felt it.
Her stare was transfixed. Lips parted. Breathing not nearly as steady as she wanted me to think.
“Konstantin,” she whispered. My name sounded like surrender, like she hated that she meant it.
Almost.
